


don't you leave me all behind

by boxerzayn



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Because of Reasons, M/M, and paint??, and thats it??????????, but its still sorta cute bc hes just jealous is all, gotta love some angst, imagine the weeknd playing in the background, louis hates harry thats new, painters au, theres never actually any harry/zayn just mentions of it, ummm they smoke alot????
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-24 00:33:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/933021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boxerzayn/pseuds/boxerzayn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>au where zayn paints louis and louis paints clouds and they’re all smoke and oilpaint and confusing softness</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't you leave me all behind

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first zouis fic im not sure how i feel but i hope you enjoy it umm thanks the weeknd for being the inspiration and god bless that day on the yacht!!! btw i wrote this at legit 5am im not sure if ive variated my language very much but whatvs bye dont sue me i dont own them

maybe why they sort of fell into eachother was because they were so alike, all in all, wrapped up in smoke and stray hair and skinny jeans.  
they look quite similar at first, the same sort of shape, all sharp hips and cheekbones and nose, before you notice that louis has thicker thighs and sharper teeth and that zayn has softer eyes.  
they’re the same too, in the way they’re both more sensitive than they put on, softer than the raw they seem like. louis sort of cracks open zayns mysterious and makes him vunerable, atleast halfway, and zayn unravels louis’ loud and comes to his honest.  
so they’re alike, and they’re different, but when they lie on the bed in the hazy smoke and when the sun slips through the window in yellow stripes neither of them can tell who’s skin the sun kisses because they mold together and they don’t really know who’s slender fingers are holding the cigarette.

****

they meet a day in february when the air in london is especially chilly but its clear, just like louis likes it. it reminds him of crisp doncaster mornings and playing footie with stan on the backyard in the fog with purple drunk hanging on from last night and sweatpants and the smell of his mothers baking and her cigarettes.  
louis slips into zayns gallery sort of by misstake, gets caught up in the moment of nostalgia of when he used to paint. (the clouds looked so beautiful, the cumilunimbus clouds as they’re called; louis always used to paint them)  
the air in the gallery is warmer than out on the street, and it smells like oilpaint and smoke and louis wonders if he’s ever going to quit, in this smoking fucking world.  
there are paintings along all of the walls; in deep colours that catch your eye but doesn’t sting it, and the objects on the canvases are bodies, stretching torsos and shadowy cheekbones and dirty feet and pear shaped women, and it’s all in maroon and dark green and creamy white and they’re kind of beautiful, oily and somehow unfinished.  
louis stands, admiring the paintings for minutes, wondering if they were painted with a model or just by mind. with the way the muscles drape on the chest of the stretching torso piece, he’s pretty sure they are.  
“hi there” says a low voice and louis is kind of in love there already, before he even turns around and sees zayn, before he even knows how zayns stubble twist and turns underneeth his cheekbones like a fucking piece of art.  
louis smalltalks to zayn about how nice his paintings are, and that he himself should get to his work at the firm really, but zayn asks if he wants a cuppa and offcourse he does. over tea louis tells zayn about that he used to paint when he was younger and about cumilunimbus clouds and oilpaint and zayn is really fucking nice and when he hmmms he sounds interested, and like, who’s ever been interested in those clouds that louis loves before? and he looks like every hair on his head was shaped by not michelangelo, (someone messier and purer), but someone goddamn good, and louis can’t make himself not look.  
zayn smokes two cigarettes and the gallery gets all smoky and foggy before louis eventually leaves with dried up leather shoes and rasp in his voice from smoke and talking.

****

it takes a week before louis is back in the gallery again, today it’s sunny in london and through the windows the sun hits the oilpaint and makes the colours warmer and quieter and zayn is sitting in the back of the gallery scetching when louis steps in.  
there’s a new painting on one of the walls, it’s a messy but nice painting of a boy with curly dirty hair and it has replaced the torso-painting, louis recognizes.  
“new, this one, eh?” louis says and zayn cracks into a smile when he notices louis. it doesn’t really suit his face the way that gloomy, concentraded face does.  
“yeah” zayn says, strolling over to study it next to louis.  
“brushstrokes are rougher in this one-” louis states boldly; “you were passionate about it.” (him)  
zayn looks at him, and it’s like there is just more force in his eyes, somehow. it’s like being looked at by zayn is like being looked at by a hundred people all at once.  
“mhmm” zayn mutters, “‘s just a friend of mine. his name is harry.” he turns and walks back to his chair in the corner, picks up his stetch. “i was in a hurry,’s why.”  
louis clears his throat. he can’t really breath in this sunny, thick air.  
“well, it’s a nice painting. i didn’t say it wasn’t.”  
zayn doesn’t look up. his eyelashes make shadows fall on his cheeks and for the first time ever does louis want to paint a person.  
“what do you want for it?”  
the smoky haze floating around zayn freezes for a second; it’s like louis poked between one of zayns ribs.  
“i dunno.” zayn says, and his voice is raw and golden honey at the same time. “last one went for 700.”  
“god” louis breathes.  
“you can have it for free though.” zayn offers, “if you let me paint you instead.”  
louis has trouble breathing properly, because this boy makes him soft and pointy and stray and weak all at once, and he noddes. “yeah. yeah.” he runs a hand through his hair, breaks eye contact with the painting. “sure.”

****

it’s mars and louis finally came back to the gallery, told zayn about that he’s stared painting again and that the clouds have been magnificant all week. he doesn’t say that he’s picked up smoking again. wonders if he ever really quitted.  
zayn closes up the gallery, and it’s saturday and it’s not very smart for business, louis insists, but what can he do. zayns fingers cut through his jean jacked like bleach and he lets himself get pulled out down the street.  
london is grey and louis likes grey, but zayn in london looks like deep green and red and soft beige and dramatic black to louis and he feels the need to paint zayn but he only knows how to paint clouds.  
zayns apartment is not far away, down the bullry street of his gallery, onto a dirty, wet street where rugs hang out of the balconys and it feels a bit like outtown barcelona, maybe if it had been warmer.  
they walk rather quietly, even though louis has a thousand things to say and even though he normally is great at talking to strangers or half-strangers like zayn.  
they reach zayns apartment and it looks and smells like zayns brain probably feels like inside, louis thinks, and it’s fricken personal with the photos in the kitchen of zayns little sisters and the cigarette stumps and the empty tea mugs in the sink with small, cold, milky puddles in the bottom.

"so, um." zayn says, looking a bit uncomfortable, shrugging off his leather jacket. (they both underestimated englands march weather)  
“if you wanna,” he gestures towards the living room, that looks terribly cold and empty, “if you wanna sit here, somwhere, and i’ll get my brushes and stuff-”  
“okay,” louis mumbles, voice hoarse of smoke, and makes himself comfortable in the livingroom as zayn rushes of.

 

being painted by zayn is quite pleasant, even though it’s a bit cold to sit in only louis’ boxers right on the floor, (and zayn insisted he didnt have to), but zayns face is so stunning like that, focused and relaxed and dizzy and louis feels raw and the stroke of dark blue oilpaint zayn brushed along his collarbone feels sticky but he wants it there because it looks almost like a lovebite and he’s not gonna scrub it off anytime soon.  
they sit still like that for hours, and sometimes louis closes his eyes and just sits there in the quietness and the paleness and the emptyness and the beeing looked at-ness, until zayn says he’s painting the face and that louis needs to concentrate, or when zayn hmm-sings and Louis freezes because damn, or when zayn asks him something about where he grew up or what kind of music he likes. (louis answers colourfully but he’s careful with asking zayn things, because he feels like he kind of wants to unwrap zayn like a flower, on petal at the time, quieter than usual.)

when zayn finally announces that he is done, louis takes his time putting on his sweater and taking a fag on the balcony next to zayn in the half warm orange evening glow, (zayns skin looks like goddamn gold and his hands like coins that louis just wants to own), before he actually looks at the finished painting.  
it’s beautiful, and it’s louis, all the lines and angles right and louis maybe doesn’t even notice himself how spot on zayn is, with the colours louis shines in and with the thin line between cold and warm that louis is.  
zayn beams quietly and asks softly is it’s okay that he hangs it in the gallery.  
louis doesn’t mind that he’s almost naked and folded vulnerably together in it; he is proud. he’d rather have himself on the walls pf zayns gallery than that bloody harry kid.

they have tea in zayns kitchen and louis promises he’ll paint zayn some time too, when the clouds stop being so fluffy and big and fascinating.  
“isn’t it wicked, how much fucking water they contain?”  
zayn smiles and the skin next to his eyes crinkle like he’s an old man and louis wonders what zayn has experienced in life, really.

****

it kind of becomes a thing after that, louis bringing his old painting stuff to zayns flat and zayn paints louis painting the clouds through the livingroom window. louis’ canvases never turn out as good as when he’s alone and not near as great as zayns but he enjoyes it very very much and zayn is so goddamn gorgeous, with his angles and his stubble and the way it turns on his cheeks and his eyelashes and the way his shoulders slot forward and louis can never figure out why zayn has that posture; if it’s him not knowing things or him not caring about things.  
they hang out alot, during march and april and may, they paint and buy new colours with fancy names and zayns flat gets warmer with the season, cozyer and dreamier the more paintings of clouds they hang up, and his eyes get softer and his smoke clouds slower.  
once zayn sells an art piece of louis’ back for 1500 £ and he’s got a thick stubble that is really good for his bonestructure and they celebrate with champagne and weed on the balcony and zayn beams like that again and louis is so in love that he makes that portrait of zayn later that night as he promised.

****

messy handjobs and rough kisses feels as easy as the sun going up and going down again for the moon, and the stars are always beautiful out when the day has been too sunny and louis isn’t really happy because he can’t be but things are beautiful.  
zayn is beautiful and zayns art gallery is beautiful and hazy and white and his painting look more golden than before.  
sometimes they watch football and history shows on bbc in louis’ apartment because zayn hasn’t got a telly and louis has learnt most things about zayn now.  
he’s figured that the soft lines around his eyes come from little sisters and choosing art school and smoking and weary clothes a little bit, maybe, possibly, from louis dumb jokes zayn tries to say aren’t funny.

and they’re not together or anything and louis still sees painting of that curly haired kid sometimes around the flat or in the gallery, sometimes zayn doesn’t pick up the phone or has gone from town for a couple of days, and louis is a jelous kidn of person, but the two of them are stable and they’re raw and soft and louis painting of zayn hangs in his livingroom next to the first one be got from zayn months ago.  
the colours are all smeared and grey the way he uses them, but you can see that it’s zayn, and that it’s louis next to him, because louis has got thicker thighs and sharper teeth and zayn has spikier hips and thicker hair.

****

it’s summer when louis meets harry for the first time at zayns friends party on a dim balcony but the boy next to zayn glows, glows, in green and stardust pale, and he holds the cigarette between his fingers posher than zayn yet clumsier and his eyes are big and too old for his body.  
louis sees that harry is a painter and he is in love with harry from that moment and harry is in love with zayn and that the both of them are sort of in love too, some smoky, passionate, lonely love and louis sees it, the way they stand together, and maybe he wasn’t really ever a painter, like them.  
zayn kisses him later, back in his flat and he paints on louis’ body and he tells him beautiful things but louis has a painting of harrys curls in his apartment and he feels sort of laughted at and outshined by this fascinating other boy.

louis never really has learnt to understand what zayn knows, he’s always been a bit to quick and loud for zayn and for harry too, and he’s not really as beautiful as them, as colourful.  
he’s grays and smoke and stray and rawness and softness and he doesn’t really compliment zayn, is the thing. not like harry compliments zayn.  
but he fits. next to zayn on the sofa in a husky green haze he molds together - floats together with zayn, and their stubbles rasp against eachothers like a smooth metallic zipper and their skins run together like oilcolours and louis isn’t really happy (he can’t be), but he’s got zayn slotted into his side and he feels like he sort flying even though his feet are tied in strings to the ground.


End file.
